Cherry Blossoms, Sandalwood and the Many Reasons Why
by marshmallowdeviant
Summary: Following Giant Gun Filled with Drugs. Messing with the Dominican cartel means someone has to pay but Sherlock doesn't know it's Joan. He waits for her to come home with dinner. Soon, he'll have to face taking care of someone else and of course, how he really feels about a certain valet/bodyguard/associate lady ex surgeon. T for injuries/language. My 1st fic!sweet/angsty.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi readers and writers! I'm a newbie but thought I'd upload a fic I've been working on (my first). Love CBS' Elementary and its characters. Please let me you know what you think (please be kind but honest) and I'll overcome my shyness enough to post the other chapters. Constuctive crit extra super welcome :) Heaps o' thanks!**

* * *

The streets were almost deserted on the way to their favourite take out place. Sunday nights were always low key- little to no case work. Joan Watson shivered against the wind as it picked up, pulling her jacket tighter around her. It was cool relief to her flushed cheeks after an evening of defending her privacy against Sherlock Holmes. Not that she expected much to change. She smiled. Would she be disappointed if he didn't meddle? Perversely, she knew, somewhere in the depths of that warehouse of knowledge he referred to as his "attic", his meddling, maddening as it was, meant he cared. And really, to have someone so…extraordinary care about you well- Sherlock was special. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. As she neared the end of her block she paused to change the song on her iPod to Bach's beautiful Chaconne. She'd suddenly developed a love for violin music. Bach was all she heard before one of the two men behind her hit her on the back of the head.

* * *

Beethoven blared from a computer in the brownstone's living room. It had been too quiet for a resident now used to the staccato of a woman's heels tapping around the kitchen in the evening. This was a fact Sherlock would never admit. A small pile of discarded locks, all open, sat on the floor as Clyde the turtle inched across the room. Sherlock fiddled with the top button of a red checkered shirt. He turned the music off, fed up. He was reciting the periodic table backwards, a practise he believed kept him "cognitively limber" but one that meant that he was anxious. He paced, talking to his turtle.

"Ununoctium, Ununseptium, Livermorium- Clyde, if Watson is attempting to prove a point by prolonging the period in which I have to wait for dinner she is being most inconsiderate- Ununpentium..."

He jabbed at his phone with a finger to send a text for the fourth time in an hour:

**HNGRY & NA  
**  
"Clyde, I am both hungry and not amused." He huffed out a sigh. He turned, having completed a circuit.

"Flerovium- Is it a ploy to assert her status as my keeper? She was displeased when she discovered my experiment on the tensile strength of fabrics but really, her knickers might save her life the moment she needs to hastily construct a rope, making good her escape from no higher than third floor of a building. Incidentally, I hadn't predicted Watson's preference in undergarments tended towards flimsy."

He swallowed, lingering by the window. The night was silent apart from the city's even blanket of distant bustle. His eyes scanned the street.

"Clyde, if you imagine I am concerned about Watson's comings or goings you are mistaken."

Sherlock's squinted at an object on the sidewalk outside the house- a black women's boot with a platform heel, its silver zip glinting in the street light. His mind's eye saw Watson standing in the kitchen, black hair falling in a dark wave over her face as she stooped to zip one boot and then the other, straightening one shapely leg at a time, causing him to spontaneously lose interest in what he was reading. She wore those boots at least twice a week. In the orange-yellow glow outside, keys and cosmetics were strewn along the street near the boot. Sherlock gulped. "Watson?"


	2. Chapter 2

"No, no, no…"

He ran down the stairs to where Watson lay, face down. He fumbled for her pulse as he gathered her in his arms.

"Watson! Can you hear me, Watson? God." He dialled 911, giving his address.

"My…my companion, Watson. Come immediately, she's been attacked. She's breathing but unresponsive." He called Gregson and threw his phone down. Her ankle lay at an awful angle, there were chunky black shoe prints on her white top. He held her in his lap, fingertips smoothing her bruised cheeks, yelling her name.

He brushed her hair back, cleaning the blood from her face with his sleeve, her delicate features puffy. He ran a thumb over her freckles, swallowing against a lump in his throat, eyes wide with shock. It was happening again. "I will be undone." He whispered an inch from her face. He was shaking.

The moment eclipsed the sound of the city at night and it felt as if he were underwater, the ground beneath him tilted. In the stillness he saw only this: Joan making tea, Joan rolling her eyes at him, Joan's feline brown eyes unblinking as they held his, Joan in the morning as he crept into her room and shoved breakfast at her in bed because he had to wake her, because he was… bored? Was that true? Was her absence the reason he turned Beethoven up so loud or texted her constantly? What could a man _deduce_ from this?

His breaths were short, his mouth a perfect O. On impulse, he lowered his lips to hers (_so soft_) and held his forehead to the bridge of her nose. "Joanie, open your eyes now."

He heard the ambulance siren as it approached a few blocks away. He nuzzled her nose.

"Joan Watson!"

She gasped, coughing. Fresh blood was on her lips. Sherlock held her tight.

"Bugger. Bollocks. Joan. Joanie. You're alright. I'm here."

He looked into her eyes.

"I'm here."

His hand gripped hers and she wheezed, her eyes wild.

"Sherlock. Two men. Sorry …"

He shook his head and shushed her, stroking her cheek, his green eyes wide and glassy. She looked at him, dazed. His hand felt a feeble squeeze.

"Stay with me."

He gently kissed her lips, feeling the weakness of her breath on his cold face. He closed his eyes when she passed out, stroking her hair. He didn't notice that the ambulance had arrived until the EMTs dashed up the path to take her away. They took her from his arms like a little broken bird and packed her into the ambulance. It sped away as Gregson arrived. Her other boot had fallen off her foot and sat, lonely beside the gate. Sherlock stared at it, numb.

Gregson hurried to Sherlock's side, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looked up at him, attempting to clear the lump in his throat.

"Th-thank you for coming so quickly."

Gregson nodded. Sherlock was ashen, his lips smeared with Joan's blood, tear streaks down his face. His voice was barely audible.

"As you might have seen, the ambulance just took J- Watson to the hospital. I was going to gather some of her things for when she wakes."

He inhaled a ragged breath.

"Assuming she wakes. Head trauma, laboured breathing, coughing up blood- her ribs were kicked"

He studied the ground.

"I should've accompanied her when she went to fetch dinner."

Gregson sighed. "Sherlock, she'll pull through. She's tough enough to live with you. Your Joan is going to be okay."

Sherlock's face snapped up to meet Gregson's gaze before he gave up and looked down. Gregson squeezed his shoulder.

"C'mon, let's grab those things and get going. Wanna be there when she wakes, don't you?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched in response as Gregson passed him to climb the steps towards the house.

Sherlock got up, stopping to retrieve her scarf from the ground. It reminded him of her. It was jade green, woven of lightweight wool and pink, fragile flowers trailed its length. It would keep its wearer warm while seeming delicate- it was beautiful. He pressed it to his nose, inhaling her perfume. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he'd catch pockets of her smell trailing through the house- cherry blossoms and sandalwood in the rain- the scent was sunshine, reminding him that she was asleep upstairs or just on an errand. His guardian angel, if you believed in such things. His legs carried him up the house steps without him realising it. He wrapped the scarf around his neck.

* * *

**Next: Sherlock copes as Watson heals. With her family away and no friends close to hand, who will take care of Watson? Any thoughts so far / suggestions welcome (eagerly). New territory for me, i'd love if you guys could be my compass :) x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys, can't thank you all enough for all the kind comments. Woke with a spring in my step because of all of you :) Without further ado...**

* * *

In the hospital, Sherlock's first question had been _why_ followed with narrowed eyes by _who._ He braced himself and allowed her injuries to tell the story of the attack:

One approaches from behind and the other from her left. An elbow to the back of her head. She falls forward (_concussion_). A kick in the ribs (_Two ribs fractured, punctured lung_). She falls back but rolls back onto her feet. A punch to her face. (_bruising_) Another and she's down. An attempt to scramble away as one man stands on her ankle (_fracture_). The other stands over her, smacking her face repeatedly (_facial lacerations indicating large signet ring_). She slips out of consciousness. They drag her by the scruff of her neck back up the block (_broken pinky finger, arms scraped_) dumping her on the brownstone's bottom step.

They could have killed her, he notes with nausea, but they did not. This was a warning. They took her money but left her phone- therefore they were hired hands not paid enough to ignore the lure of cash in a victim's wallet but paid sufficiently to ignore credit cards or a cell phone. He examined the handkerchief he found stuffed in her pocket- white, crisp and embroidered with the Dominican flag.

Obviously saving Rhys' daughter and outing the DEA agent of the hastily acquired gang tattoos had angered the Dominicans. They wanted him to stay out of their business. His mouth set in a grim line. We would see about that. But for now there was Watson. He put his head in his hands, blinking back tears.

* * *

"Are you her husband or partner?"

The ICU nurse asked. He takes a moment to weigh his answer according to visitation rights.

"We're engaged… She, ah, left her ring behind before going out." He sighed, thinking quickly, "Washing the dishes."

The nurse's eyes oozed sympathy, her hand pressing against her chest.

"I'm so sorry. Have you contacted her family?"

He nodded again, remembering in a haze.

"Her parents are on a cruise in the Indian Ocean- Seychelles I believe, they like to be away for the winter. But I've left word for them. Her bother lives in Beijing."

"So you're all she has by way of family?"

The nurse looked at him, waiting for an answer. _Poor man looks shell shocked_. Sherlock looked up at her, but looked through her. This had not occured to him.

"I suppose that I am."

He exhaled. The nurse finished changing Watson's IV. She was about to go but turned.

"She will wake up. The doctor said in a few days, hopefully. Scans look okay, concussion is bad but not severe, lung should correct itself in time and ribs will heal…I've seen worse. She's actually pretty lucky. Might even be able to leave after a week."

All Sherlock could do was nod, desperately wishing the nurse gone. She smelled of baby powder and disinfectant- it was cloying.

He muttered his thanks. As he heard her footsteps moving further down the hall, Sherlock dragged his chair to Watson's bedside, looking at her slight figure in the hospital bed and the tubes full of liquid that were trying to heal her. He made tiny sound as he ran a thumb over the vivid bloom of bruises on her arm. Finally, he lowered the bed's side rail, took her hand, lay his head on her shoulder and fell, exhausted, into an uneasy sleep. One where he dreamt he was playing violin for Watson who sat on their living room floor, smiling up at him.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock tried not to dwell on the terrifying prospect of taking care of another human being. His time was divided between plotting non fatal revenge against the Dominican Cartel and puzzling over Watson as she slept. He was unsurprised by how few friends turned up to visit- doctors were a busy lot and friends who had severed ties like Watson had were hard for them to understand or extend more than token gestures to. Apart from a stoic but sympathetic Bell and Gregson stopping to deliver info on the cartel and visit Joan, flowers arrived from her ex and others sent cards. It really was just the two of them.

* * *

He left her to go home for supplies. The sight of blood on the bottom step tightened his throat, turning his thoughts to abandoned buildings, stained mattresses on the floor and syringes full of oblivion. He could calculate to the half minute how long it would take him to score and get to the nearest squat. But there was Watson. Alone and broken in a hospital bed- because of him. Logic forced him to admit, that at present, he was all that she had. This, for reasons he refused to understand, gave him peace. He took a deep breath and started up the steps. It was in the house, using Joanie's phone to notify everyone of her situation that he saw the email reply from his father:

**_Received your message but do not wish to extend your services at this time…_**

It was dated weeks ago. He laughed out loud when he realized he'd known all along, deep down. Still, his mind grasped for any reason she would remain by his side unpaid that didn't mean that she cared for him a great deal. Love was a word stricken from his vocabulary when he lost Irene.

* * *

Later that day, Sherlock dragged Alistair ring shopping to "make good his cover story". In Greenwich Village they wandered into a bright little jewellery shop.

"Sherlock, my heart goes out to Joan, really. But have you given any thoughtto the _reasons_ for what you're doing here?"

Sherlock waved him away.

"I'm simply ensuring my continued involvement in Watson's well being. The status of fiancée grants me uncurtailed visitation in addition to guaranteeing that I am the first point of contact regarding any developments in her convalescence. It's society's fault that "fiancee" trumps "deductive mentor"... Or "friend", not mine."

Alistair threw his hands in the air.

"Sherlock we've been to eight different shops. Eight! Why don't you buy her a small fake ring if it's _just_ to hoodwink hospital staff?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and sniffed at Alistair before quickly turning his head back towards the display case.

"Ah! I believe I've found one. Not traditional, quite remarkable looking, actually. What are your thoughts?"

Alistair groaned. For a genius Sherlock barely understood himself. Alistair rolled his eyes and approached his friend, laying a hand on his shoulder as he leant in to look.

* * *

After three days, they told him he couldn't be in the room overnight. Time for a plan. Scrubs were easy to come by and a fake ID was obtained courtesy of his "friends" at the conspiracy theory chatroom. Once he insinuated that they were engineering super soldiers at Mount Sinai hospital using gorilla DNA they couldn't send it quick enough. He made himself scarce and changed back into normal clothes as morning approached. The kind nurse who he'd met on the night he arrived turned a blind eye to him asleep in scrubs and unbeknownst to Sherlock mentioned to the other nurses that he was an old doctor friend of Joan's. The man was odd she thought, but she'd never seen a fiancée more faithful. He had even put her ring back on her finger- how romantic.

* * *

He brought a couple of boxes of cold cases to keep him occupied during the day, laying files out on the floor or on Watson's bed. He talked to her about each case's particulars, watching Clyde crawl up Joan's leg. Once in a while he'd play with locks of her glossy black hair, assuring himself he was familiarising himself with the precise look and texture of Asian hair- no telling what might be useful in future cases. Of course, this was why he held her hand, studying her muted olive skin and slender fingers. Sometimes he played violin for her. Simply because, he told himself, his reading indicated that stimulation of any kind was good for the unconscious. In many cases, comatose patients remembered things said to them. It was unrelated to the dream he'd had. He was certain she would wake up presently; her wounds were healing at the normal rate. Still…he thought, she should have woken by now. He dismissed this and decided to paint her nails cherry red. She'd kill him. The thought made his eyes twinkle.

* * *

**Next: It's easy for Sherlock to watch over a _sleeping_ Joan. What happens when Joan wakes up? How will she feel about depending on Sherlock? ;) Thanks for reading, really apperciate it. Would love to hear you thoughts, drop me a line. It's food for my typin' fingers ;) x**


	5. Chapter 5

**A big heartfelt thanks to Jane Q Doe, Dina C, hophophop (who also writes excellent Elementary stories), darkeyesgirl (for reminding me how great Alistair is), VioletBeauregarde and halAa for their really kind, helpful comments. You guys are the best- thanks for reading and taking the time to say hey :) And now back to a certain hospital bedside...**

* * *

At around 4 am on the fifth day Sherlock felt a hand on his cheek. He opened his eyes to find Joan's peering back at him. His breath hitched. His head was in its usual spot on her shoulder. Joan ruffled his stubble, a crooked smile playing on her lips.  
"Watson. You're awake."  
He had the eyes of a child. She noted the dark rings that ran under his eyes, how his worry lines seemed to have deepened.

"You're here… Sherlock, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

He reached up taking her hand in his.

"Am_ I_ okay? My dear, dear Watson- whenever am I not?"

They stared. He looked down, embarrassed and sat up.

"I was, I admit, alarmed. But I had… every belief that, that is to say, I never doubted that you would be, eventually quite alright."

He hopped up, clearing his throat and turning on the light.

"I just stopped by to see how you were. On the off chance that you were awake."

She looked around the room. There was an empty dinner plate and two glasses, one half full of water by her bedside along with a toothbrush and deodorant. Clyde was at the foot of her bed. A file was fanned out over her blanket. Sherlock's violin case was in the corner. She looked back at him sideways. He had that look of a five year old who was insisting that they hadn't stolen the last chocolate cookie despite the chocolate crumbs staining their mouth. His smile was sheepish. She decided not to ask him why he was wearing scrubs.

She looked down and smirked.

"Ok, thanks. How long have I been out? And my parents- did you-"

"Contact them? I did. I reassured them you were injured but okay. Your brother too."

She groaned. Her head swam and pain thumped in her chest.

Sherlock moved closer, pulling the cover up over her shoulders while sneaking a furtive glance at her.

"That'll do for now, Watson. Mustn't tax yourself. I'll bring you home soon enough."

"Home?"

He turned off the light.

"Yes."

Her eyes were closed when he looked at her again. He sat down and returned to his spot on her shoulder. He whispered,

"I'm so relieved… Joan… that you are alright."

Joan kissed his forehead and intertwined her fingers with his but he was already sleeping the deepest sleep he'd slept all week.

* * *

Alistair was busy filing books in the bookstore when Sherlock's bright green eyes appeared on the other side of the bookshelf. He jumped.

"Alistair. I'm afraid I require your assistance with a project. Again."

Alistair chuckled. Never a dull moment.


	6. Chapter 6

Joan woke feeling almost clear headed, despite the pain medication. She patted her face, gingerly, wondering how bad the bruising was. She felt the coolness of a metal band on her finger. Funny, she didn't remembered wearing any jewellery that night. She looked down at her left hand.

"What-?"

On her ring finger was a matt gold band, not closed. A deep green oval shaped stone was set on one end lengthways, attached to a curling half leaf, the other side curled in a tendril to meet it. She blinked a few times to make sure her concussion wasn't just worse than she thought. It stunning. But where the hell- ? Sherlock. Her nails were also bright red. She howled with laughter until the pain in her ribs made her whimper.

It was when she was moving in bed that she noticed her toes. Did he have to paint those too? She was going to kill him.

He walked in as she was wiggling her toes thinking her mani/pedicurist hadn't done as good a job.

"Sherlock!"

He saw her toes peeking out of the blanket and raised his eyebrows, suddenly becoming very interested in the window.

"And what is this?"

She held up her left hand in accusation.

"That, Watson, is an engagement ring."

"Ugh! I know what it is. What is it doing on my finger? Did I miss a proposal and acceptance before I was attacked?"

He looked taken aback.

"Nonsense, Watson! You know how I feel about the culturally enforced farce that is matrimony. It merely guaranteed I would be kept informed of your…status."

He looked at the ground under the window.

"You don't like it."

"What?"

She watched him slouch and poke at the ground with his shoe. She glanced at the ring again and sighed.

"Sherlock it's a beautiful ring."

He looked at her, eyes happy.

"I thought if the charade was necessary I might do as well to find something you would like…as a token of my gratitude."

She looked at him. Sherlock Holmes: gifted detective, infuriating eccentric genius and absolute sweetheart. Who knew? She did. Always had.

"Sherlock why are all my nails red?"

He squinted and scrunched his face.

"I was going to get a spot of lunch. Want anything?"

He was leaving the room.

"Sherlock."

"I'll get you some spaghetti."

"Sherlock!"

The door closed. She made an annoyed sound and flopped back on the bed, examining her ring which, when she got out of the hospital, she would move to another finger. She was surprised as she noticed one detail about the ring. It wasn't intended as an engagement ring but it wasn't fake either.

* * *

He helped her up the stairs to her room in the brownstone. She agreed, reluctantly, to allow him to "assist in her convalescence" under the condition that she would forego prescription painkillers- she didn't want them lying around, he was still recovering. He sulked, about to argue he'd gone a week unsupervised without relapse but when he saw her features set into "immovable Watson" he gave in.

When they got to the threshold of the room Joan was so stunned she had to lean on the door frame for support.

The books and bookshelves from her old apartment that were in storage had been moved in and a couple of the funky, modern paintings she'd bought had been hung on the walls. The bed had been changed with her own colourful linens. The purple lamp by the bed was hers as was the retro bedside table. A picture of her family on vacation that she had kept in her living room sat on the mantelpiece and her TV and DVD player were in the corner. Even her coloured glass vases had made the cut.

Sherlock stood behind her, his normally busy hands clasped behind his back. He was studying her face for signs he'd crossed the line. He pursed his lips.

"Alistair helped. We used your pornography for reference…You're cross with me."

Her mouth still hung open. She blinked.

"I told you _not_ my pornography. Cross?"

"Angry."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"I've miscalculated. You're upset."

She shook her head and threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, breathing her in before gently pulling away.

"Thank you."

She dabbed at her eyes.

"Aherm. Right. Good to have you back."

He pushed forward on his toes, wiggling his fingers while avoiding her gaze.

"Best get us something to eat."

He scurried away, leaving an overwhelmed Watson to marvel at her room. She sat on her bed, realising she wanted a picture of Sherlock to go next to the one of her family. Maybe one of him and Clyde. She smiled, wondering what exactly that might mean.

* * *

**Next: The Dominican cartel get their comeuppance- Sherlock style...and does Sherlock learn to deal with a vulnerable Joan without squirming away. A little longer than planned but almost at the end! :) As always thanks for reading! Please drop a line if you have any thoughts / crit :) x**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks, guys so much again for your support and comments! I appreciate it. They will from now on be a cure (to be re-read) for whenever I get the frownies ;) But for now...**

**Revenge: A dish best served...with toilet paper?**

* * *

Sherlock had been studying the upper echelons of the Dominican cartel in the city, trying to assess how to exact revenge without starting a tit-for-tat feud which, with the cartel's resources, would be impossible to win or survive. He settled on a couple of points: Retribution would have to be subtle and anonymous. Secondly, Watson wouldn't want anyone harmed- at least not physically. This was important since he'd have to tell her everything eventually.

After thrashing out a few theories, he noticed that among the cartel members, some had relocated to the USA illegally. His contact in Immigration admitted that they were aware of a few of the names on his list but due to a lack of man power (or corruption) had been unable to track them down at proven permanent addresses. Following a few successful stake outs on his own (one that had him witness a brutal beating) he was happy to assist them in deporting four murdering gangsters, all thankfully single men- two who happened to be second and third in command of the ring that had targeted Watson.

Their boss, however, remained untouchable. At least legally. Finally, in a fit of irritation, Sherlock came up with a plan. His second point: "no physical damage" was amended to "no _lasting_ physical damage".

The jefe made no secret of his nightclub of choice. It was a gaudy hotspot that the man owned and held court in. Most nights, he could be spotted at the back of the club in a white leather lined booth surrounded by a bevy of surgically enhanced, scantily clad females. They chugged champagne like extras from Scarface. Sherlock sighed. The man clearly thought he was the Trujillo of Manhattan. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

* * *

One seedy Saturday night in _Sabor_, a hot New York City club rumoured to be run by the Dominican cartel, a scruffy British man of average height changed into a waiter's uniform. He was not a waiter.  
He ducked behind the crowded bar undetected and brought out a magnum of the club's most expensive champagne- one reserved only for the club's owner, Rafael Luis Hernandez.

He placed it in a bucket and crossed the club's red carpet through a parting sea of dancing poseurs, arriving at Hernandez's booth. It was the VIP section- a section elevated from the rest of the club, cordoned off by suited thugs, steps, pillars and glitzy beaded curtains that looked like strings of glittering diamonds. Hernandez cheered at the sight of champagne, his girls squealed, clapping as he slapped one of them on the ass before pulling her into his lap. The man's wife was at home, asleep with his children.

Sherlock pulled the magnum out of its bucket and popped the cork. He made a show of trying to stop the foam, turning his back and tipping the white soluble powder from his sleeve into the bottle as the foam stopped. It would dissolve almost instantly. He stalled by getting them to move their glasses to the centre of the table. Intoxication never equals speed. He filled their glasses, smiling pleasantly as they drank. He left the bottle, the table and then the club after a half bow. Ah, extra strength laxatives, he thought. Great for the constipated, not so great for drunk kingpins and their lady friends. It was apt to cause explosive diarrhoea- quite quickly. And as luck would have it- very publicly.


	8. Chapter 8

It was somewhere between midnight and morning the next day when Sherlock was woken by a thud and a scream. Watson. He threw off his blanket and dashed down the hall to her room. She sat on the floor next to her bed in a tangle of sheets, dazed and crying.

"Watson. What's happened? Did someone break in?"

She sniffled, shaking her head. Sherlock stood in the doorway, hesitant. He took one step forward.

"You fell out of bed. I expect you might have been experiencing trauma as a result of your attack? It's very common. Over 46,000 people-"

She began to sob, her head in her hands. The cast on her ankle made her look particularly pitiful.

"I don't cry in front of anyone. Don't look at me like that."

Sherlock took another tentative two steps forward. He produced a tissue from his pocket and held it out to her, crouching.

"A dream?"

She took the tissue and blew her nose, nodding. He looked at her, eyes soft.

"I'm so sorry Watson."

He thought for a minute and reached for her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and he lifted her up. She winced as he placed her back in bed, she was calmer now. They had beaten her again in her dream but this time she had been dying.

He got into bed beside her, pulling the covers over both of them. She was trembling. He stroked her hair.

"Don't be upset, Watson. You're safe."

Her back was to him, he put an arm over her, gently pulling her closer.  
He found her hand in the half dark, threading his fingers through hers, their hands resting on her stomach.

"Don't be afraid."

She felt the terror recede. She squeezed his fingers. He kissed her cheek, gave a sleepy sigh and burrowed into her hair. She fell back to sleep, feeling the steady beat of his heart on her back. Joan had no more nightmares, Sherlock stopped sleeping anywhere else. He didn't want her falling out of bed again, it would only hinder her recovery- he told himself this was simple logic. It had nothing to do with the drifting off holding the slight warmth of her and the reassuring floral scent of her sheets.

* * *

She was rearranging the flowers that Gregson and Bell had brought that morning in a vase in her room when Sherlock brought up dinner- soup in a mug with a bread roll.

"No bowls again?"

He imitated the picture of innocence as best he could.

"I was going to tidy up a bit but I was otherwise diverted."

She scoffed and took the mug, savouring the hot warmth of the soup. She had begun to feel the effects of trying to recoup without strong pain killers.

"A case?"

"No, it's been a quiet week and I've…been busy."

She looked down, busy with her, she assumed.

He had had to help her button a shirt yesterday and had turned the most adorable shade of bright pink she'd ever seen. She might have teased him a little bit by sighing and stretching her neck, moving her collarbone ever so slightly closer to his face. She couldn't help it; he was so endearing when flustered. He couldn't get out of the room fast enough.

She changed the subject.

"You still up for a movie here later?"

He made a face.

"Are you asking that I sit still for two hours?"

"Sherlock. You promised. You've never seen The Man Who Knew Too Much. Classic Hitchcock! You brought my DVDs out of storage for a reason, right? Now you're telling me you won't watch one with me? Come on. You're on popcorn detail."

"So called "thrillers". Asinine at best. Boring at worst."

He gave a dramatic sigh. But he hummed happily as he went down the stairs.

* * *

He settled in the bed beside her, placing the bowl of popcorn in her lap. She threw some blankets over them and pressed play. She looked at him and grinned.

"You'll figure out the plot in ten seconds. But just try to enjoy it- ok?"

He gave a begrudging smirk, defenceless against her enthusiasm.

She ignored it, sat back and linked arms with him, excited.

Later, she grabbed his hand just as the gun inched towards the little boy's head. He stiffened, turning to look at her profile. She was completely absorbed in the movie, the light from the TV flickering across her face. Her hair fell tousled and easy over her shoulders, her lips had healed and bruises faded. He swallowed and shoved popcorn into his mouth, impressed by Hitchcock's camera movement and his keen eye for symmetry in the composition of his frames. He stole another glance at Watson. Her face had symmetry. It was also somewhat reminiscent of princesses in traditional Asian art. Hm.

* * *

She fell asleep on his shoulder. He got up and turned the TV off, crawling into bed beside her in the moonlight, lifting her head to place a pillow beneath it. She must be in pain but she never said anything. He tried not to remember her on the step outside before the ambulance came that night. He took her hand, noting how small it was, turning it over to examine the ring he'd bought for her. She hadn't taken it off since the hospital. He ran a thumb over it, unsettled- he wasn't used to feeling protective. When he looked up her eyes were open. She had a funny look on her face; she was looking at him pointedly with- he didn't know this look. His eyes widened. She put her hand on his.

"I'm in love you Sherlock Holmes."

She stated this the same gentle way you'd tell a child that Easter was _always_ on a Sunday. Her eyes told him she meant it. She held his gaze for a second, touched his cheek lightly and turned over in the bed. She didn't expect him to respond. Sherlock's jaw dropped. He staring at the ceiling- petrified.

When he could look at the ceiling no more, and when he was certain she was asleep, he watched the shadow patterns of backlit leaves from the oak tree outside their window as they danced across her hair. But he was really watching her, knowing he hadn't misheard no matter how much he tried to convince himself. The panic didn't fade, exactly, but the strange, warm glow of being loved tugged one corner of his mouth imperceptibly upwards. The tides of her breathing lulled him to sleep.

* * *

**One more chapter left, I promise! What do you think Sherlock is going to do? He can't run from this one gracefully when morning comes. Will Joan regret it? As always, a big thanks for reading! And I'd love to hear what you think so shout in my general direction with any thoughts (good or bad :) ) . Til next time, friends! x**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey kind readers! These are the final two chapters (well one and a half) written before I watched ****_Details_****, so please forgive the bit of double action towards the end. Thanks so much, guys, for reading, following or adding to favourites. You made posting and writing such a happy experience. My special thanks to the guests I couldn't thank by PM, as well as Ms. Jynesis, ImagineThis22, Serenity I. Noir, redpony, Dina C, hophophop, darkeyesgirl, and halAa for their support- it means a lot! :) And now for what happens when two people, broken in different ways, find that the edges of their missing pieces fit together in sort of a strangely beautiful kismet. Really hope you enjoy…Be warned that I'm a shameless romantic and clearly can't help myself. ;)**

* * *

One panicked call to Alistair in the morning preceded a knock at the door half an hour later. Sherlock was waiting and opened the door. He was out of breath and shirtless, obviously having worked himself into a frenzy. He hadn't even put on socks.

"Alistair! Good. Now. You said you would bring something useful."

Sherlock held out an impatient hand, opening and closing his fingers. Alistair ran a hand through his hair, prolonging Sherlock's visible discomfort. He grinned with more than a hint of wickedness. Sherlock bristled.

"I'm sure I can't imagine what you're smiling about."

Alistair gave a mock sigh, straightened and pulled a small yellow book out of his pocket.

"You're no fun. Here you are. Dr. Alistair says take this and then get thee to a florist."

He poked the book for emphasis.

"Florist?"

"Yes Sherlock, a florist."

He patted him on the shoulder.

"I know you'll choose wisely. But for now I need breakfast. I'll remind you that you woke me before dawn. I shall leave you to it."

Sherlock gave a yelp of protest. Alistair turned to go but paused, eyes warm.

"Congrats, old friend."

He started back down the steps and stood next to the cab, which had been waiting. He shouted back up at Sherlock, arm held aloft for dramatic effect.

"A heart to love, and in that heart, Courage, to make 's love known."

He winked, got back into the idling cab and drove off into the new morning light, back towards the heart of a city just waking up.

Sherlock sighed.

"Bloody Shakespeare."

He examined the small book in his hand.


	10. Chapter 10

Joan was alone when she woke up. She groaned. Midnight declarations were for teenagers. He must have bolted in a panic. She lay still for a couple of seconds, hearing nothing but the birds and the rumble of a garbage truck. The house was rarely silent. Disaster. She sat up; mentally smacking herself on the forehead for ruining everything. That was when she saw the long red tulip on Sherlock's pillow and a little yellow book beside it. She picked up the book:

_Flowers and Meaning: A Pocket Portrait Through the Ages_**  
**  
She gave a little laugh.

The floorboards creaked in her doorway where Sherlock stood in a crumpled white t-shirt.

"Wait."

She looked at him, feeling more than just a little vulnerable. He came towards her holding out a clipped newspaper article.

"You might be interested in reading this first."

She took the article, wary. He sat on the bed beside her and gave her a nudge.

**Alleged Dominican Drugs Boss Poisoned **

_ Rafael 'Jefe' Luis Hernandez became the victim of_

_poisoning two nights ago in _Sabor_, a nightclub _

_ implicated in multiple drug busts over the past few _

_ years..._

She looked at him in alarm. He smirked, nodding for her to read on. She skipped further down.

_Hernandez, the club's owner, with rumoured ties to _

_ Dominican cartel operations on the east coast, is _

_ not reported to be in a serious condition though an _

_ ambulance arrived on the scene. Three other victims, _

_ all women, were believed to have been affected._

_"The smell was awful." an onlooker remarked..._

She put the pieces together.

"You're saying the Dominican cartel are the ones who attacked me?"

He had a coy look on his face.  
She gave a small gasp.

"Sherlock! I was hoping you wouldn't do this. Tell me you didn't poison this man."

He shifted uneasily.

"They were just laxatives, albeit extra strength…at a high dosage. But surely, with all the fried Caribbean food in his diet, I did the man's digestive system a favour- scoring a point for regularity, so to speak."

He looked at her sideways and muttered.

"Got off lighter than the others, anyway."

She was aghast.

"Others?! God, Sherlock, do I have to call Gregson?"

He placed his hands on her arms.

"I assure you, it was all above board. Their paperwork was not in order and so, they found themselves, eh, deported. I knew you wouldn't want anyone harmed. See? Learnt my lesson."

He wrinkled his nose. She didn't know how to react so she let out a loud

"Ha!"

She covered her mouth, shaking her head.

"I mean, you could have been hurt...You're something else."

He saw her amusement and smiled, suddenly shy. She looked down at his hands still on her arms. His thumb was subtly moving back and forth, creating goosebump ripples across her skin. She quietly returned his gaze. Taking this as a natural cue, he reached around her and laid the red tulip on her lap, handing her the book. His green eyes shone. She took a deep breath.

The book had a short introduction but each flower's history and meaning was listed in alphabetical order.

**_Tulip_**

_Originally from Persia and Turkey, Europe fell in love with the tulip in the 1630's when…_

Blah, blah, blah, she skimmed on.

Ah! Tulip meanings were listed by colour. Red...red...

_Red: Undying love_

She lowered the book, mouth open. Her eyes questioned as they welled up. He smiled faintly, moving closer, reading her face. The atmosphere crackled. He lifted a hand, as if testing something. His fingertips reached out to her cheek before he moved forward; suddenly brave, to kiss her. It wasn't that he wanted to kiss her, he _needed_ to kiss her.

When their lips met it was like a match struck in a dark room. Shadows retreated to corners and repressed passion made the air thick with urgency. He kissed her again; hand in her hair, gentler but drunk on her. He touched his lips to hers again, softly, before he sat back. They were both dazed. He pulled her green scarf from behind his back; tugging the edge of it free from his back pocket, and put it around her neck, brushing her hair out of the way. He took her hands, looking at her from beneath his eyelashes.

"My father stopped paying you to be my sober companion a month ago."

She was about to speak when he raised his fingers to her lips

"I would've figured it out if I had wanted to."

He touched the flowers on her scarf, fiddling with the fringed end of it.

"I didn't. Subconsciously deliberate."

She waited for him to continue.

"Then, when you were…attacked I couldn't sleep here any longer. I slept at the hospital. Initially I thought this was for your sake but, when I examined it further, I realised that it was for mine."

He paused, still not looking at her.

"There were other things. I kept your scarf because it smelled of you. This ring. How I felt as you slept, pleased that I was to be the one to look after you, and in the beginning, fearing you wouldn't wake."

He bit his lip.

"You once said that I like to figure people out, that I viewed people as puzzles. Thing is, Watson, you solved me - me, a virtual enigma machine- from almost the moment you arrived and… I'm bad at this. I hadn't believed that it could happen again after - "

The name hung in the air, upsoken. Joan leaned forward to comfort him.

"Sherlock. It's okay. You don't have to-"

He held up a hand and took a deep breath.

"Just listen. The facts have forced me to deduce- to deduce that…"

He hazarded a look at her and, seeing the same look she gave him last night- _tenderness_, he realised, that's tenderness- he looked above her feckles into her eyes, where he saw his future, and continued, saying the scariest part of what he had to tell her quickly. She thought- his eyes are bottomless, almost innocent.

"I deduced that I am in love you Joan Watson. I think you're beautiful in every respect. Your goodness, your tenacity, your intellect and your loveliness are beguiling and I would like for you to be my partner in work and in life and to never, ever leave."

This time she kissed him and didn't stop, a happy tear escaping the crushing kiss. There were stars in their eyes as held each other. Before, neither had dreams for the future- that changed. Laughter and whispers filled the upstairs room of the brownstone and they stayed in bed all day. She threatened to sell his bees on Craigslist if he ever tried anything as dangerous as messing with the Dominican cartel again. He knew she was serious and loved her for it.

Two days later he moved the ring to a different finger as she slept. How long would it be until she noticed? Perhaps not that long, he thought, smiling at the curve of her sleeping back in his shirt- her observational skills had really come along. He kissed the soft patch of skin just below her ear before deciding that maybe more sleep was in order. They had work in the morning.

Clyde, who happened to be crawling by, thought:

_FINALLY._

* * *

**Thanks again for reading :) For some reason, I feel compelled to share the extra strength corny romantic playlist I made that helped me write this in case anyone needs a soundtrack, think of it as sort of like the story's DVD extras ;) :**

** type in you tube's address and add /playlist?list=PL34lxR_6od1s65oaJzHXZ3_-9twXr_156**

**I can already feel another one coming on. Uh-oh. It better be shorter ;)**

**Peace 'n' love x**


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